


on old friends and what came between them

by trueasthesky



Category: The Jungle Book (2016), The Jungle Book - Rudyard Kipling
Genre: Gen, a bit shippy if you squint hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trueasthesky/pseuds/trueasthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, after a long, heavy quiet, Bagheera speaks – low, almost to himself. “Before this war is over, one or both of us will be dead. But I make this my oath, to honour till the end of my days: you will do Mowgli no harm. You will not touch a hair on his head. He will not fall between your teeth. He will know old age, with or without me.” </p><p>“You’re a fool to protect him.” </p><p>“Maybe so. But I raised him. It is my duty.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	on old friends and what came between them

**Author's Note:**

> an exploration of the possibility of some sort of relationship having existed between bagheera and shere khan before mowgli came to the jungle. also just exploring what could have happened after mowgli escaped and why it may have taken so long for bagheera to rejoin him. based mostly on the 2016 film and the original books. it's a bit terrible but enjoy and have a lovely day!! :3 x

It’s hatred. Black and hot and curling under his fur, in his veins, like a thousand little vines that smother and choke and stifle every last whisper of sunlight. He stands there for a long moment (stone on the ledge), claws sinking into the soft, wet earth, following the stampeding herd of buffalo with narrowed eyes – watching as they disappear past the horizon in a chaos of churned up dirt and fear. Stupid horned beasts, frightened into blind panic by a tiger hunting other prey. And he cannot follow – his legs are strong and his lungs well-accustomed to the burn of toil, but only a fool would trail after creatures who are no strangers to days without thought of food or water or rest. So he stands. And he roars _(“there is no where you can run, man-cub, no where you can hide that I won’t find you”)_. And he hates.

Then he remembers. Shere Khan turns on hunched, shaking shoulders and there, across the plain, is Bagheera – that lithe, midnight panther who so prides himself on abiding by the Law, yet so easily welcomes man into the jungle and says “this is your home”. And it’s Shere Khan’s right, it’s his _duty_ , to rid the jungle of a creature whose bloodlust and fury he has borne witness to firsthand; the other People may think it is all well and good to shelter a cub, for what harm is a cub? Can a tiger cub bring down a sambhur? Can a wolf pup silence a boar? No! So how, then, can Mowgli be a danger? But they have not seen what man becomes. They have hidden amongst the trees when man comes stomping through the jungle with sharp sticks and dogs with snapping jaws; they have fled when man chases and sought refuge where man cannot go. They have not seen what man truly is – they have not seen the depths of man’s greed. They have not seen man carve flesh and coat from carcass and wear it upon their own shoulders as a testament to their strength, their bravery. They have not known _fear_. Shere Khan has known that fear. He knows it still (and it has come to taste so very much like blood). It lurks there, at the back of his throat, under his tongue, in every muscle and every breath – and it is shameful but it is _there_.

And if he is the only one to sense the threat that radiates like a dull heat from Mowgli’s body then it is _he_ who must extinguish that young flame before its sparks burn the jungle alive. Oh, it is only a matter of time before the man-cub realises he is this place’s unnatural ruler.

Bagheera, half-concealed by the long, dry grass, his body like dusk against the ochre, is struggling to haul himself to his paws. Shere Khan can imagine the weight in every limb, the concussion swimming like cloudy water behind his eyes. He looks so small. So pained. Shere Khan swallows thickly against the rising heat of rage. When Bagheera glances towards the trees, a terrible roar breaks free of Shere Khan’s throat and he throws himself forward, bounding across the parched, cracked ground with the blades of grass lashing his face, just as the low-hanging trees of old had drawn their biting fingers across the hide of the first tiger, so many moons and legends ago. Bagheera’s head whips around at the cry, ears flattened against his head, haunches drawn under him in one last, quivering effort. Paw pads burning against the hot dirt, Shere Khan leaps and bawls the weakened panther over, pinning him to the earth with unsheathed claws prickling into each shoulder (he can feel the soft skin under each tip and it takes everything in him not to break it and watch the blood well). Bagheera struggles for only a moment before realising remaining tense and still will serve him far better. He quietens.

“Where's he gone?” Shere Khan snarls, close enough that he can feel Bagheera’s panted breath fanning across his cheeks; the panther’s lips have curled back against his teeth, his eyes disoriented but swearing one simple oath: he will give his life for that boy. (He will give his life for a child whose first instinct is to conquer and kill and set aflame; Shere Khan has seen too many men in his lifetime to believe that the boy raised amongst wolves will be able to shake himself free of nature’s true calling). He doesn’t answer. Shere Khan’s neck fur bristles, his whiskers pressing back against his mud-specked muzzle. “The man-cub, Bagheera – I won’t ask again. _Where is he?_ ” 

Bagheera’s jaws widen into a deep, gurgling hiss. “Gone. Back to his own People.” He spits the words out, his deep voice growing a little shrill and losing a few shreds of its usual elegance. “Back to man.”

“And you’ve let him go? Just like that? Without a goodbye? Forgive me if I sound _rude_ , Bagheera, but I find that a little difficult to swallow. Tastes a bit _rotten_.”

“I expect most of your diet does.” The venom in his voice trickles out into a choking grunt as Shere Khan shifts more of his weight onto his forepaws, tail lashing furiously.

His words lower to a growl, close to Bagheera’s ear; they watch each other from the corners of their eyes. The air, sickly in its warmth, murmurs of strain and distrust. Far above their heads, vultures circle in a loose, shrieking pattern against the harsh afternoon sun. “Here’s what I think. I think he’s going to wait for you; I think you’re going to go find him – maybe wait a few days, slink off up to the treetops to lick your wounds, but you’ll go. And you’ll find him. And then you’ll both make your way to the man village, together. Like _equals_.” He pauses to lick his lips, a low, thoughtful hum rumbling deep in his throat. Bagheera stiffens further, muscles shifting uneasily beneath Shere Khan’s paws. “Or maybe you won’t. Maybe you think I’m a fool, or that my threats are empty, and you’ll allow him to stay in the jungle and tell him I won’t scour every single leaf and twig and rock until I have him in my jaws. There are _so_ many possibilities, Bagheera.” His voice drops to a snarling whisper; Bagheera’s ears flatten closer to his skull. “But I’m wondering something. I’m wondering what’ll happen if you don’t show up. If you don’t find him. Will he survive out there, deep in the jungle, on his own? Do you think so?” He draws back to study the panther’s face, his voice rising once again – and it’s nonchalant, matter of fact, almost as though a note of distant warmth has crept into it (it hasn’t). “Well, let’s not find out. Let’s play fair, give the poor, little man-cub that this whole jungle seems to love so very much a fighting chance. I’m going to wait until you’re better, until you’ve eaten and slept and cared to your injuries. We can wait as long as you like, I’m in _no_ hurry. In the meantime, perhaps I can find a way to draw him back and save us both the trouble. And if not, we’ll go together – anywhere you go, I follow. If you lead me on the wrong path, the man-cub will die. If you lead me to him, he will die. And you will fight for him, I know you will – you’d give your life to protect a cub that isn’t your own. And if you do, you will die. And he will die. And he will shut his eyes for the very last time, knowing his guardian panther both betrayed and died for him within the same day. It’s all so _very tragic_.”

He smiles for a moment (it fades in a moment). “It’s _so_ simple, Bagheera. Know your place. You are of this jungle. He is not. Your fealty to him will make you nothing but just another carcass for the vultures to gobble down at twilight – and then all the jungle will know you chose an outsider over them. And they’ll sing songs about the panther who was loyal to the wrong cause; the panther who spat in their faces, and on the Law, all because a hairless child offered him a smile and called him _Brother_.” His sneering voice is thick with derision, contempt, _bitterness_. He snorts as though to rid himself of the mere notion, lifts his head to study the clouds drifting atop the canopy like a pale, wispy wreath in the dying heat of the day. “So. _Lead me to the man-cub_.”

Bagheera exhales a sharp breath – indignant, afraid, it could be so very many such things. "You are a coward, Shere Khan – hunting boys still wet behind the ears because you fear the mere possibility of what he could someday grow up to become.” The tiger’s eyes flick down; Bagheera holds his gaze, though his lips quiver against a suppressed snarl. “I have raised the boy since he first came to the jungle. He will do no harm to any of us – to that I give my Word."

"Your _Word?_ Well, in that case…” Shere Khan sniffs, whiskers twitching in morbid amusement. The panther narrows his eyes at the dismissive shake of Shere Khan’s head. “But it's not cowardice, Bagheera - it's _forethought_. Haven’t you been teaching your man-cub about the virtues of looking to the future? You must’ve been. Clever little Bagheera, with the mind of a snake." With a last snarling chuckle, the tiger steps free of Bagheera, paw by paw, slow and heavy, and pads over to stand a little way away, kneading at the earth as though to say _see how comfortable I am within these borders that are not my own?_

Bagheera remains on his back for a moment, eyeing Shere Khan distrustfully, before rolling onto his stomach and heaving himself to his feet on trembling legs. He bows his head for a heartbeat, squeezing shut his eyes and exhaling, before blinking and turning his head back to face the tiger. A thin trickle of blood has trailed down Bagheera’s cheek, glistening in the sunlight. Shere Khan meets his gaze steadily. With some reluctance, Bagheera tears his stare from the tiger and sits to begin grooming the dust from his pelt, casting a watchful eye upwards between each lick. Slowly, the black is swept free of the white and the brown and the grey. "It's only forethought if there's a chance it might actually come into fruition,” the panther reasons quietly, continuing to glide his rough tongue across ribs only just waning beneath flesh after the drought and the famine. “Where is the boy to find the red flower? Or weapons of any sort? In a man village, which is _exactly_ where he'll be if you continue to hunt him."

Above their heads, the sky has begun to dim and darken, the sun edging its way towards the horizon to swallow the fleeing man-cub whole; the treetops gleam as though touched by fire, sheltering their trunks in thick, warm darkness below; the grasses, already orange, are transformed into a field of deep sunlight – so rich in colour and the scent of hot earth that Shere Khan can taste it. Above and below and all around the men settle down to rest, and the world of wild souls (claws and teeth and eyes that glint in the heavy darkness) begins to awaken. He can feel it – under his skin, deep in his bones. A dull vibration. The smell of rebirth and second chances – the buck ran too fast last pre-dawn but tonight it will be different.

This is the time for _life_.

But for now, it is the time for thoughts of swift-coming death. He licks his lips dismissively. "So I’ll have to catch him before he gets there."

Bagheera lifts his head mid-lick, the tip of his tongue caught between his front teeth; he frees it with a snap of his jaws. "You'll have to step over my dead body before I allow that to happen, Shere Khan."

"You’ve gone a bit soft with age, haven’t you? Must’ve, if you’ve let _man_ get so deep under your skin.”

The panther is silent for a long moment, his eyes falling to the dirt beneath his paws. Shere Khan can almost hear the waters rushing in his mind – the memories, the regrets. Finally, he straightens, sets his gaze past Shere Khan’s shoulder. Breathes. “Neither one of us is who we once were.”

“It’s a shame, really. Don’t you miss how this jungle feared us? The way they’d whisper our names, scared of being overheard?”

“They fear us still.” Bagheera looks coolly at the tiger a few paces from him. The panther has begun to slip into the quick-descending night, though he remains still and unmoving; Shere Khan’s body is rendered an early skeleton, black stripes disappearing into the darkness and leaving uneven strips of orange and white. Bagheera’s voice drops. “But for quite different reasons.”

And there’s _shame_ in those words – the panther’s shame on behalf of an old friend lost to ambition and fear and _hate_. An old friend who was burned, scarred; an old friend who withdrew from the jungle, sought refuge by the Waingunga to nurse his pride and his flesh; an old friend who turned from his home and allowed terror to consume him because he’s so much weaker than anyone believes him to be. An old friend whose fear of man cost him respect and earned him the name _slaughterer_.

Just as that old, familiar guilt begins to prickle, Shere Khan forces down the full weight of his ice and malice and cold, _burning_ detachment and it’s gone. A ragged feather lost on the breeze; the sands of time. His lips draw back into a snarl, hooking over gums and yellowed teeth; and he stalks forward, head lowered and thrust forward but eyes never straying from the panther’s. Bagheera is on his paws before Shere Khan has taken half a step. “Tell me, Bagheera - just to jog my failing memory. How long have we known each other, you and I?"

"You know how long,” he replies gruffly, holding his ground. “Years beyond counting.”

Shere Khan continues his advance, halting only when he’s close enough to see every strip of green in the panther’s eyes, every fleck of dust still clinging to the tips of his fur. Close enough to smell the unease that drifts from Bagheera like the perfume of wildflowers (the worry for his _child_ ). Close enough to smell the blood. "Was it, perhaps, since the day you first crept into the jungle? Oh, you thought no one noticed - just another panther that no one had ever seen or smelled before, making himself at home. There were a few questions here and there – had we seen the young creature? Where did he come from? Well, soon enough, though, it all died down. But we aren't all dim-witted bullocks. I knew. You stank of men and collars and chains and you missed your first kill but, still. I let you stay. And I introduced myself - very good of me, really. Before too long – do you remember? – we shared everything: places to sleep, places to roam, places to hunt. And it was good hunting, wasn’t it? With all the jungle beneath our claws? Do you remember that one evening, Bagheera? When I told you of my mother and how she’d been caught in a trap and stripped of her pelt by man? How you lay by my side and groomed the burs from my ears – there were no _scars_ then – and swore your loyalty? And I believed your promises to be true because I knew you held no love for man. Oh, yes. There was such trust between us. Such affection. What happened to that, I wonder? _Brother?_ Did you love me so little that when you heard my cries of pain in the dark that night, you went instead to the man-cub’s aid?

“Because, you see, old friend, there's a rumour about this jungle - I've never given it any credit, and I won't, not till I hear it from your own mouth, because our old friendship is worth that much at least. So I’ll ask you now.” He pauses, takes a moment to drink in this closeness that has such a different flavour to the intimacy shared moons before – close now in distance but not in spirit. Now it tastes sour. A low hum _(quiet; violent; daring him to put a foot wrong)_ rumbles in his throat as he tilts his head, studying Bagheera. “Did you bring the man-cub into the jungle?"

Bagheera raises his chin (but is that a tremour in his voice?). "Yes. And I'm not ashamed of it. What would I be if I let orphaned cubs starve when I have the means to protect them? Survival needn’t be so cruel."

“Do not _speak_ to me of survival!” Shere Khan snarls, ears flicking back. “You fed from a man’s dish for the first years of your pitiful existence and still you chose to forgive their kind at the risk of your own.”

“I think of that choice I made every day of my life, Shere Khan, and I know in my heart that it was the right one. He was orphaned and defenceless. The Law teaches us that there is no pride to be taken in killing the weak unless it be to eat.” Bagheera’s ear twitches. “And by my reasoning, Mowgli is not the one who has caused this jungle harm.”

“Oh, _I_ have?” He lifts a forepaw and slams it down heavily against the earth. “I’m trying to protect our very way of life!”

“By tearing it apart?”

“He's _using_ you, Bagheera. What use does a man-cub have for a panther unless it's as ally? You're a means of survival! And once he's grown, he'll have no more use for you and you'll be thrown aside and left to the red flower, and then you - all of you - will be so, so sorry that you spat my warnings back in my face. And, oh, I'll _laugh_. Your jungle will burn and I'll laugh because no one listened to me when they had the chance. No. Instead they chose to sacrifice themselves for a man-cub.” He steps closer; the panther steps back. “ _Bagheera_. Is one boy _truly_ worth all this?”

“Your own hypocrisy is astounding.”

Shere Khan grates out a rough chuckle. His hypocrisy. _His_ hypocrisy, says the panther who wears the Law like a second pelt and then is rendered weak at the knees by one word from man. Says the Jungle who fears one of their own but sleeps beside an outsider. Says the Jungle who hears _“he is a threat”_ and replies _“impossible”_. He can imagine the boy’s upbringing – Bagheera’s soft paws against his fragile little body, claws sheathed and teeth tucked away even as the man-cub tugs and grabs and pinches; suckling beside each new litter of pups, warm and safe amidst wolves taught from birth that Mowgli is one of them; sheltering from the rains alongside buck and gaur because he will do them no harm – he will strip no flesh from their bones, he will summon no fire, he will carve no spears. He is not a man. He is of the _Jungle_. Shere Khan growls to himself in place of a scoff.

For a long moment, there is silence. Bagheera sits and watches the tiger through slitted eyes, ears twitching every so often as the sky continues to darken and, soon, opens above them with light rain and a distant roll of thunder. The earth around them breathes, exhaling the smell of damp soil into the night. The grassland, ordinarily drowning in the scents and sounds and glinting eyes of prey once darkness has fallen, remains all but empty in the presence of Bagheera and Shere Khan.

Finally, Shere Khan blinks himself back into the present and jerks his head towards the jungle. Bagheera remains still for a heartbeat, defiant, considering, before hauling himself to his paws and stalking ahead, shoulders rolling sharply above his lowered head. Shere Khan follows, trotting a few steps to fall in step beside him. They make scarcely a sound as they walk, swallowed up by the shadows the moment they step free of the tall grass. The air is thick with the scents of nocturnal beasts slinking through the wet undergrowth, disturbing not a leaf, not a twig; all bow and scatter before the two great hunters, though one steps with an uneven gait and carries the stench of his own blood. The rain falls against the canopy with a steady _pat-pat_. Already the dirt has begun to turn to mud and it sucks at their paws, slipping between Shere Khan’s toes and beneath his claws. Water drips from his chin like liquid tendrils. 

Then, after a long, heavy quiet, Bagheera speaks – low, almost to himself. “Before this war is over, one or both of us will be dead. But I make this my oath, to honour till the end of my days: you will do Mowgli no harm. You will not touch a hair on his head. He will not fall between your teeth. He will know old age, with or without me.”

“You’re a fool to protect him.”

“Maybe so. But I raised him. It is my duty.”

Shere Khan slows to a halt; Bagheera stops before him. For a moment, they simply hold each other’s gaze as the rain continues to fall above, around, upon them. Shere Khan flicks a droplet from his ear. When he speaks, his voice is as low as Bagheera’s; and it sounds so very much like an apology – not for this, not for Mowgli, there is no remorse to be felt there (there is remorse to be felt for so little these days). But for the past. For the lost. For what once was. “One day we’ll end this.”

“And on that day, the past will be laid to rest, after all these years.” Bagheera blinks – and it’s gentle, it’s tender, it’s a memorial to the times long since behind them. Just for a moment. He tilts his head. “What happened to you, old friend?”

And just like that, Shere Khan is once again lost to rage and fire. He backs away, tail lashing back and forth, claws catching on the sodden leaves of the jungle floor. A snarl gurgles through his throat. What happened to him? What came between them? What will one day be the death of him, if not now then in a year, or two, or three? “ _Man_.”


End file.
